


carry on

by Fxckxxp



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Apologies, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Exes, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Gen, M/M, POV Niccolò Fares, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 20:30:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19875637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxckxxp/pseuds/Fxckxxp
Summary: Martino is a saint, mamma Fares is a bit tipsy, and Niccolò thinks surprise guests usually ruin dinner. But not this time.





	carry on

“Hm. That’s weird.”

The empty bus — minus a group of made-up girls standing at the middle doors waiting to get off — rattles over a pothole as it pulls over. It’s late for a weekday. But people are probably taking advantage of the last weeks of summer before the sun starts setting early again. 

Now that he’s moved out, Nico makes a point to visit home on Mondays for dinner. (And maybe lately, sometimes, he finds himself there the better half of the week for the air conditioning.) More often than not, Marti joins him.

He rests his head on Nico’s shoulder — first looking at him, then following his eyes to the old brick phone Nico just pulled out of his pocket. He really should get a new one.

“What’s weird?” 

Nico feels Marti’s face tilt up to look at him, probably noticing his scrunched eyebrows and slight pout.

“I have a missed call from Maddi —” he winces. “Er. Maddalena.” Her shortened name feels weird now. Too playful. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud in a while.

“Maybe it’s an accident,” Marti suggests, pulling his head up. He doesn’t sound bothered. “Butt dial or something.”

Nico hesitates to slip the phone back into his front pocket. 

“Should I call back?” He stares at her pixelated name on the screen when he asks it.

Marti just shrugs. “Up to you. Maybe wait until after dinner, though. What is your mom making again?”

“Tomato risotto,” he deadpans, not really paying attention. She’s still on her no meat thing.

His mind is somewhere else, far away from food. He keeps his phone in his hand, thumb smoothing over the buttons that have all but lost the print on them. He’s ignored a few of her calls before — way before. Months and _months_ before, spanning from Milan until New Years. 

It’s been a while since he’s reminded himself of what she might have wanted. But maybe it’s nothing, and Marti is right.

He’s not worried about her call for safety reasons — she’s probably fine, and he knows he isn’t the first person she’d contact in an emergency. He’s not even that troubled about what she might have to say. The uncomfortable feeling in his stomach is due to the cocktail of resentment and shame and abandoned apologies still stuck in their heads fighting on down at the reminder. 

He’s always been bad at that — letting go. And when he did it was clumsy and sloppy and he left his sticky fingerprints all over her without bothering to cover his tracks. Like mishandled evidence at the scene of the crime.

It was just about over before he met Marti — but he’ll never admit Marti was the deciding factor, despite how obvious that may or may not be to her.

He must sense Nico’s apprehension. He’s better at that than anyone.

Silly, Nico thinks — working himself up over nothing. But Marti surreptitiously takes his free hand even though they’re the only ones on the bus now. Squeezes it once before slipping them both into the pocket on the front of his hoodie. 

It’s soft, and it makes him relax enough to return his phone to his pocket. Nico thinks Marti’s being too kind about it all, and that makes him both thankful and worried.

“Does it bother you?” Nico asks, although Marti hasn’t given him any indication that it has. Maybe he just wants to hear him say it. “That she called?”

“No,” he says simply, and Nico appreciates that he’s not trying to play dumb or offended. “I told you her and I have apologized to each other. She doesn’t make me jealous, if that’s what you’re asking,” he ends with some springy inflection, bumping their shoulders. Trying to cheer him up.

Nico gives a weak laugh, unsure if that was helpful. He berates the thought process of _Marti’s not jealous, that makes me feel bad_ turning into _Marti is a good, rational person for not getting jealous over something this silly_ and back again, caught in a loop that never ends and never settles.

He wishes his brain wasn’t thrown into the depths of a whirlpool at the littlest things.

“When we were at the beach two weeks ago and that one girl who joined you guys for volleyball had the audacity to keep touching your stomach, though — _that_ made me a bit jealous,” Marti continues, maybe prompted by the lack of Nico’s response. 

He always knows just what to say.

“I was flexing,” Nico jokes back, a little guilty to be relieved. “Can you blame her?”

“Can’t say I can,” Marti mumbles, and Nico hears the smile in it. His head finds his shoulder again.

• • •

The hallway smells like garlic and onions — in a good way. In a _dinner is almost ready_ way. When Nico unlocks the door he pulls Marti inside by the hand and the smell intensifies, so does the temperature — the kitchen wafting into the rest of the rooms.

They’re laughing about something, but Nico forgets what as soon as he sees Maddalena on the couch. His mom on the chair adjacent. A glass of red wine in their hands.

She cut her hair short — chin length. Swapped her contacts for stylish, tortoiseshell glasses. She’s in a dress he’s never seen her in, and one that he definitely would not peg as her style. Not when they were together, anyway. She looks like a new person, and Nico wonders if he’s actually passed her on the street between then and now and didn’t recognize her from a distance.

Her mouth scrunches into a sorry frown at the sight of him, and his mom turns around to contrast it with a beaming grin.

“Hi, honey. Hi, Marti. Dinner is almost ready. Look who I found!” 

Nico wonders if maybe she’s on her second glass of Sangiovese and if the aroma from the kitchen is tipping into burnt. They’ve been here for a while.

Marti tries to let go of his hand, and while Nico lets it slack he doesn’t let it fall away.

Maddalena clears her throat. “I was asking your mom about being a reference for a scholarship I’m applying for,” she explains, voice cracking, words tripping over each other. “She didn’t tell me you were going to be here until maybe thirty minutes ago.” Her statement is laced with apology, and it’s apparent her call was a warning one.

The tension is stagnant. And palpable.

Nico’s mom rolls her eyes over her shoulder in Marti’s direction, as if to say _you kids,_ and Nico feels like he’s in an alternate dimension when Marti giggles. Different wavelengths all over the place.

“You can stay for dinner if you want —” Anna offers, turning back around.

But Maddalena is quick to cut her off, waving her free hand and shaking her head. “No, no. That’s okay. I have plans, anyway.”

“Well,” she huffs, smiling bitterly at the rejection. But Nico’s probably the only one who’s noticed. She downs her last sip in one smooth gulp and sets the empty glass on the coffee table. “I’m going to go stir the risotto. Marti, can you help me chop the salad? You’re good in the kitchen, you have magic hands.”

Maddalena stifles a snort.

Nico must be twenty different shades of red.

And Marti, a true hero, is taking it all in stride. He tickles Nico’s palm while he silences a giggle, and Nico might fall to the floor if he wasn’t here.

She trails off into the kitchen before Marti answers her, and he looks to Nico first for a confirmation — squeezing his hand to let him know that no matter what happens, it’ll all be okay.

Nico nods and lets him go; Marti surprises him with a bold kiss on the cheek that makes an overdramatic smacking sound. He waves to Maddi with a smile before vanishing into the kitchen.

An expected silence settles over — the emerging chatter and rustle from the room behind them almost dimmed with the coarseness of it.

“You two are cute,” Maddi nods, tipping her wine glass back and forth and looking into its contents, as if the resulting legs dripping down the sides are the most interesting thing in the world. “I like him.”

It’s hard not to, but he’s not going to say that.

The thing is, Nico is really good at switching from _I’m uncomfortable_ to _here, look at my big, beautiful smile because everything is fine (even when it’s not)._ But with Maddi, he’s lost that. It’s been chipped away from him because she’s one of the only people who knows everything about him. She probably knows more than Marti.

So he just stands there, half-stunned and uncool. An acquaintance wouldn't recognize this Nico at all.

And while now, she looks like one — she isn’t. So she does.

Maddalena sighs, as if at the awkwardness that never used to exist between them. Nico takes it as an invitation to sit down next to her on the couch. Hesitant, lightly.

She smiles at him, a little sad. Almost patronizing. But it melts away quickly, like she’s suddenly remembering something. 

“You look much better than the last time I saw you,” she says softly. It’s not mean or condescending. Nico recognizes the caring in her voice, because she’s seen all of his states many times before. And it’s not a lie, either. The last time they were together he was depressed and dirty in the car back to Rome. “I’m glad you’re doing well. Your mom even told me you moved out. And that you graduated.”

Sometimes Nico wonders if it’s worth it to open up. To know that there are people out there, wandering around, who hold his secrets in their brain who he never talks to anymore. Who others deem appropriate to keep telling his secrets to.

Of all people, though, maybe Maddalena isn’t the worst person to hold this information. Despite some recent events, she’s been more careful with it than most.

“They say third time’s a charm but I must have gotten lucky,” Nico jokes, unsure if that was smooth or corny. He never used to have to worry about this stuff around her.

She laughs though, if not a little forced. They’re dancing around it, Nico can feel it. But the feeling of what they’re avoiding still seems uncertain. He’s not sure if when he opens his mouth again it’ll spill with accusatory expletives or a heartfelt apology.

Maybe he’s done enough of the former and not enough of the latter.

“I’m —”

“I’m —”

They’re thinking the same thing, and they say it at the same time. Pausing, laughing again. This time genuine and a little shy.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Maddi continues. Finally looking up at him. “For all kinds of stuff,” she waves off, scrunching her eyes closed. “For telling Emma about you and Martino, for acting like your doctor, for lying to Martino…” She looks down, finger skimming the rim of her almost empty wine glass. “But most of all for not believing you.”

She doesn’t have to specify what for. A heaviness settles around them when Nico realizes why: maybe there are too many instances to count.

But he doesn’t dwell on that. She looks up again and it’s understood.

“I’m sorry, too,” Nico breathes out, like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. “Cheating on you was not cool.”

“It wasn’t,” she agrees, a little dry.

“And I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Her mouth curves up in an understanding smile, almost thankful — probably for the lack of excuses. Nico can’t fathom one anyway. It’s funny how it all ended up where it should be without them; it’s hard to be anything but honest with her. 

“We both did, to each other... at the end,” she states. A soft fact. “But I did love you, and just wanted what I thought was best for you. I know it’s hard to trust, but I never did anything to intentionally spite you. I always just wanted you to be okay, and sometimes I didn’t understand what that might be for you.”

Nico nods with a hung head, purses his lips. “I know,” he whispers. And he does. And it means a lot to him.

He watches his antsy hands fiddle together before looking back up at her — and if he’s not mistaken, her eyes are watering. Suddenly he feels guilty for not answering her calls. Maybe this is what she wanted to say, and maybe this relief could have come quicker.

The silence lifts, despite not saying anything. Nico hears Marti and his mom laugh in the kitchen, the clink of plates and forks and the beeping of the timer on the stove.

And yet, maybe it all happened at the perfect time.

“I really am sorry,” he says again, this time through a lump in his throat.

“I know,” she echoes, extending her arms. “Friends?”

Nico folds into them before he responds. She’s small, it’s so different and yet so familiar. Her hair smells like the same shampoo she’s always used and she’s stolen her mom’s expensive perfume again. It’s nostalgic, and he couldn’t be happier that he doesn’t miss it at all. All that remains is something warm.

“Friends,” he agrees. 

She doesn’t let go until he does.

“You really can stay for dinner if you want,” Nico smiles, tilting his head as he pulls away. “If your _plans—”_ he air quotes, “were just an excuse.”

She scoffs fondly, standing and hoisting her purse on her shoulder, brushing her dress to straighten it out. “I do have plans, actually,” she starts, her voice a little flirty. She angles her chin up and her short hair swings with it. There’s a pause. “I have a date.” She almost sing-songs it.

Nico’s not surprised. “He’s a lucky guy.”

She smiles. “So is Marti.”

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/) 💛


End file.
